


When the Dust Settles

by Masu_Trout



Category: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: M/M, Mid-Canon, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-15 05:51:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4595319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Masu_Trout/pseuds/Masu_Trout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>No one – save perhaps Hojo, and that man hardly counts as human – has seen his monsters before. It was one thing to wrestle with them in the dark of the Shinra Manor's basement; to lose control under the open sky feels shameful somehow. </i>
</p>
<p>Vincent is more than a little shaken the first time his monsters take over on the battlefield.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Dust Settles

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt _Cloud/Vincent, battle aftercare_

When Vincent comes to, there's blood caked in the plates of his metal arm and shreds of gristle caught in his teeth. His head is pounding.

It must have been the Galian Beast, then. None of the others are quite so... hands on. (Or claws on, as the case may be.) He tries to stand, but only makes it to his knees before he collapses back into the dirt. There's something like nerves or shame curling in gut, and he could at least brush his hair out of his face, make sure his surroundings are safe, but he finds he doesn't want to.

No one – save perhaps Hojo, and that man hardly counts as human – has seen his monsters before. It was one thing to wrestle with them in the dark of the Shinra Manor's basement; to lose control under the open sky feels shameful somehow. Almost perverse.

He sighs, watching the muscles of his arms tremble and jerk as they struggle to support him, and wishes he were still able to vomit. Hopefully his new teammates won't react too badly. Not, of course, that he would blame them in the slightest if they did.

There's a noise coming up on Vincent's left, too loud to be a wolf and too soft for a Valron. He turns, listening, and a moment later Cloud kneels next to him.

“Here,” he says and pushes his canteen to Vincent's lips.

Vincent drinks gratefully. He swishes it around, then spits a mouthful of red-tinged water onto the grass. A second mouthful loosens most of the bloody scraps caught in his teeth, and a third he swallows. It feels like heaven going down – he hadn't realized just how parched he was.

Once Vincent has gulped down all he can, Cloud pulls the canteen back. Vincent opens his mouth, ready to... explain, perhaps? Apologize? He isn't sure what he wants to say – but Cloud doesn't even look at him. Instead, he leans over Vincent's metal arm and starts to rinse away the blood with careful trickles of water.

“You don't need to do that.”

Cloud snorts. “Barret once forgot to clean his arm after a battle, and he didn't stop complaining about it for weeks. I'm not taking any chances.”

Vincent wants to protest; he's a professional (former professional, he reminds himself) and at the very least he knows how to maintain his weapons. But the hint of a smile pulling at the corner of Cloud's mouth stops him. There's something very charming about it, as small as it is, and too late Vincent realizes he's being teased.

He really has been apart from humanity for too long. Even the simplest of things feels alien.

“And anyway,” Cloud continues, “I owe you. It's only fair.”

“Owe me?” Vincent flicks his gaze to Cloud, confused.

There's a long, shallow gash across Cloud's chest and a matching set of teeth marks on his left arm, just above the bracer. He'd apparently tried some sort of first aid, but blood still seeps sluggishly through the loose bandages.

A fragment of memory strikes Vincent suddenly: the wolves, circling. Cloud had struck one down with a great sweep of his blade, only for it to rise again at the sound of its companion's howl. None of them had been prepared for that.

Vincent frowns. “You should heal yourself first.” It's a nasty-looking wound, certainly far worse than his discomfort.

“I'm fine.” Cloud's tone of voice leaves no room for argument. “I heal fast. Nanaki got it worse – he's healing himself up right now. I don't want to bother him over something this small.”

_Something this small._ Vincent had been brought up to speed on Shinra's activities when he joined this strange group; he knows exactly what a SOLDIER is supposed to be capable of. But there's a difference between knowing and seeing; it's strange to hear someone as young and as small as Cloud dismiss a wound like that.

Not that he has much room to talk. They're similar, he supposes; neither of them are quite what they seem anymore. Shinra has a way of doing that to people.

Vincent settles back down and lets Cloud wash the blood from his claw. Each movement is focused and precise – it reminds him of some of the older Turks he'd known long ago. Right now, Vincent can understand why so many people chose to follow Cloud.

“That should do for now,” Cloud says finally. “I have some gun oil back at camp, for the Buster Sword. I'll lend you it if you'd like to give it a better clean.”

“Thank you.” Vincent has his own supply tucked away with Quicksilver's case, but he suspects it won't have taken twenty-five years of inactivity well; he'll be lucky if the bottle isn't bone dry.

The thought of cleaning his arm is not appealing. Hojo altered him while he slept. He's never unlatched the golden armor before, has no idea if it will even open or what he will find underneath if it does. But there's no harm in accepting the offer. If nothing else he'll be able to clean Quicksilver.

Vincent pushes himself back onto his hands and knees. This time his arms are steady and after a moment he stands. His eyes feel sensitive and his head still aches; the sky seems almost too blue.

Nanaki is sitting under a tree nearby, the green glow of healing magic shimmering around him. The corpses of Nibel wolves are scattered across the plains, most of them in pieces and a few in what could charitably be described as chunks.

_I did that_ , Vincent thinks. He never had any illusions about what he was, but to see the evidence like this, in bloodstains and scraps of flesh, is a stark reminder.

“Cloud,” he says. “I apologize.”

Cloud stops, then turns and looks at Vincent. Even in the mid-morning light his eyes have a soft glow to them. “You didn't hurt either of us.”

“I am not _entirely_ unaware in that form. I have at least that much control, I think.”

“Then don't worry about it. We're happy to have you here.”

Without another word, he turns back towards Nanaki. The Buster Sword catches the sunlight in wide arcs as he walks away.

Vincent sighs. He can't tell whether he finds Cloud exasperating or intriguing. 

Probably both. There's something interesting about a man who can watch his teammate turn into a howling, ravenous monster and have absolutely nothing to say about it.

His eyes are finally starting to adjust, but the world still seems painfully bright. He tilts his head back and watches a cloud crawl across the horizon as he waits for the ache to fade.


End file.
